


use weapons of clairvoyance

by twitchytweek



Series: Tweek Week 2019 [3]
Category: South Park
Genre: Craig + those guys are present, Gen, M/M, also the steek is more of a very sweet bromance than anything, but this is mostly character analysis for Tweek, just exist on the periphery, so it's only related to the prompt if you squint rlly hard, so they don't speak, the prompt was difficult to pull off as a written thing, there are other characters but they don't rlly get dialogue so i won't tag them, yes this is a day late and for that im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-31 23:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20248651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchytweek/pseuds/twitchytweek
Summary: It wasn't real. Hearing it wasn't real didn't help it feel any less viscerally horrifying, but he repeated it to himself like a prayer when he snuck out to get away from the gnomes watching him, and he shouted it to the shadows that turned to peer at him from under the streetlights. He wandered the creek until the bugs under his skin grew agitated, and then he sat himself on a fallen log and wondered what he'd look like if someone found him there. He could decompose by morning time, and it would be just as well, just as anyone could expect. "Oh, this was bound to happen," they'd say, and Tweek would watch them, all cosmic energy, and shout and scream and plead that itwasn't, they just refused to listen until he was already dead.





	use weapons of clairvoyance

**Author's Note:**

> track for fic: Bad Habits— FIDLAR

No one ever believed him.

That was fair enough, he guessed— it wasn't as though naivety saved Tweek from knowing what was slipped into his coffee, not forever, and he'd never been under the impression that he possessed a sound mind. He knew people knew about him, and what had been done to him, and why he couldn't be trusted to paint an accurate picture of reality. But it would be nice if, for once, someone heard him out. He was so _tired_ of his own head. 

The first time he tried telling his parents about what he saw and felt and heard, it was a gas leak. Not a real one, but that was what they told him to explain away why everything smelled like it was rotting. He taught himself how to cook, just to be safe. It didn't always help, but it did mean he managed at least one meal a day. He brought his own lunches to school and frowned at the revolting sight of whatever they served in the cafeteria. 

Next, it was gnomes, but not really gnomes; they were these tiny, wispy little creatures that watched him plaintively from his room. Noise seemed to drive them out, so he picked up the habit of leaving something playing when he tried to sleep, music or movies or YouTube, until he was too exhausted to focus, too tired to be scared. He played instruments and pretended not to see them. They didn't attack him often, only when it stormed, and their bodies would open up to a horrid mix of teeth and eyes. He drew them, made them characters in comics and told himself they were under his own control. No one else saw them, and he made it his duty to protect them so they'd never have to. From there, his brain concocted an elaborate world around them.

For a couple months he was certain he was being stalked by a ghost— he was later told he'd almost been abducted by a man describing himself as the Ghost of Human Kindness. He did remember that as being true. Remembered being terrified something was out to get him, and everyone was a potential kidnapper or rapist. Of course, they were still watching, listening, waiting. But Tweek never went out without a pocket knife in case they tried anything. 

It wasn't real. Hearing it wasn't real didn't help it feel any less viscerally horrifying, but he repeated it to himself like a prayer when he snuck out to get away from the gnomes watching him, and he shouted it to the shadows that turned to peer at him from under the streetlights. He wandered the creek until the bugs under his skin grew agitated, and then he sat himself on a fallen log and wondered what he'd look like if someone found him there. He could decompose by morning time, and it would be just as well, just as anyone could expect. "_Oh, this was bound to happen_," they'd say, and Tweek would watch them, all cosmic energy, and shout and scream and plead that it _wasn't_, they just refused to listen until he was already dead.

By highschool he'd made his peace with being dead. It wasn't too bad, really; he was sad he never got a funeral, but as long as he still shambled along he could see how people may be confused. Kyle had to regularly remind him to eat and drink, and he kept the habit even well after Tweek had stopped hanging around that group. It felt pointless, being already dead, but the alternative was concern and worry and mother-henning. Stan stopped trying to coax him into eating when he came over to practice for the band they'd never really form, and instead encouraged him to nap on his couch, promising nothing would happen to him. And nothing had yet, apart from the nightmares Stan would always hold him through when he woke. And Kenny would listen, without any condescension, to every fear Tweek had, and he'd distract him after. 

They snuck out together a lot. Kenny needed a break from his house and playing adult and Tweek needed a break from his own head, so they'd wander aimlessly. Sometimes dragging others out with them— Stan was easy enough to convince, Kyle took a bit more plying before he decided the risk was worth it, and Craig and those guys could be talked into joining them, occasionally, when Tweek convinced him to ignore his petty grudge against Stan's crew long enough to get drunk and play a tournament of Smash Bros. Sometimes, he'd get Stan to put on an impromptu concert with him, and they'd annoy Token into playing the bass, and Kenny would happily abuse the drums for a bit. Whoever else they dragged along acted as a buzzed audience, and they weren't perfect by any means but for a brief little while, Tweek felt some part of him blink groggily to life, and he felt okay. He felt _good_. 

They joked about starting a proper band. Tweek joked about how funny it would be to have a zombie band member, and Stan had learned by then to laugh along with him. But those jokes turned into lighthearted planning, turned into drafting band names and logos and discussing styles (they all eventually agreed on a grungy punk sound, the one common taste in genres between all of them). Stan offered to let Tweek play the frontman as long as he got lead guitar, Token grew less resistant to the idea of playing bass after much soothing that he wasn't being a stereotype— though Craig volunteered to take it up instead, if only to keep an eye on Stan's gang— and Kenny could be talked into near anything fun enough, it wasn't hard. They were writing songs, but only for the joke, until they figured out how to play a few near-perfect. 

A festival came to town, one none of them much cared for, but Randy was all too happy to sign them up to play, and just like that, they were really _doing_ this. 

Playing for an audience was terrifying. They hadn't even finished setting everything up and Tweek was ready to scream; he knew he'd step out on stage and everyone would see right through him, his brittle bones would buckle, his skin would fall off and black blood would slick the stage, or maybe it was tar, sticky and hot— wait. No, he was sweating. Fuck it was hot outside. 

He collapsed onto one of the amps, limbs heavy with stress and exhaustion and god knows what else. "If I faint on stage," he declared, directing his tired stare to Stan, "You're carrying me off." 

"You won't faint, dude," Stan soothed. "There aren't even that many people."

"I'd say a couple hundred is a decent turnout for a town this size," Token offered from his place at the speakers. Tweek wilted.

"Fuck this," he huffed. "I don't— why did I think I could do this? Where the hell is Kenny?!" 

"Car broke down or something," Stan said. Tweek felt like dissolving between the floorboards. "He's gonna walk, it won't take long. Come here and help me check that everything's in tune?"

"We need a drummer," Tweek said, joining Stan beside the stacked instrument cases. He ran his fingers over all the stickers they'd decorated them with, bandages catching the edges. 

"And he'll come," Stan said reassuringly. "Try not to think about it for now." He popped the latch on Tweek's guitar case, grabbing the neck and lifting it out. In anyone else's hands, Tweek would panic, but Stan was gentle with his instruments. 

"Aren't you nervous?" Tweek asked, rummaging in the little jar he kept for his lucky pick. 

"Not really," Stan shrugged. "I mean— I guess, a little, but dad's made me play for his friends tons of times, or dragged me out to bars, so I'm used to having an audience. You just have to believe that you know what you're doing."

"Perfect!" Tweek chirped. "I have no goddamned idea." Stan frowned, and the words spilled freely after that. "I only know I'm good because you guys say I am, but how do I know you're not lying—"

"That's ridiculous."

"I'm serious, man!" Tweek's nails dug into his forearm. "I'm gonna forget the words, or the chords, or I'll fuck up the chords, or I'll trip! And I'll make all of us look bad!" 

"They won't care. Alright? Little mistakes like that happen _all the time_ during live gigs, and most of the time no one notices, and if they do, it doesn't ruin the experience. I've messed up tons of times before, hell, so have you! And you course-correct and you keep going." Stan pulled his hand away from his skin before he could do too much damage. "That's all it takes. You just have to keep going, and you'll be fine." 

Tweek dragged his finger over the guitar strings, hoping the sensation would distract him. "I don't want to ruin things for you guys. This is a big deal."

"You've played for people before. Remember that whole song you and Craig did for drunk driving or whatever? What makes this any different?"

"I was in control then," Tweek realized.

"You still are. Even more, now. Look, when you step on that stage, you get to decide for yourself how everyone is going to see you. That's pretty fucking cool."

Tweek nodded, "I'm not trying to fix my reputation."

"No, you're deciding it. Be whoever you want!" Stan placed a hand on Tweek's shoulder. "No matter what you do, I'm gonna be proud of you, dude." 

Tweek smiled. He didn't realize he had until Stan smiled back, and he felt… warmer. More like a body, less like a corpse. The frantic murmuring in his head was much more quiet. 

Tuning everything up gave him something else to focus on for a bit, and conversation strayed from anxiety to the setlist, then setting the rest of the gear up— because apparently the town council couldn't be bothered to hire any sort of stage crew. Between Stan and Token, they managed to figure everything out with time to spare for soundchecks. Kenny showed up with about ten minutes to spare and they spent the rest of the little time they had making sure everything sounded right. There was so much to be done Tweek wasn't given any room to think, or breathe, and the suffocating pace was a welcome reprieve. 

Stan was right beside him when they took their positions, murmuring little encouragements as they were announced. When Tweek's fingers touched to the strings, he swore he could feel the electricity through the amp buzzing him back to life, and his face broke into a proper grin that took effort to sing through. The first song was over just as quick as it started, as if he entered a trance during it and only snapped out when the last note faded to obscurity. He breezed through the next, unsure if his energy was anxious or excitement but god, did it lift him high. He was bouncing in place until Stan nudged him, encouraging him to move and dance and be dramatic, have fun with it. And it was fun, once he let himself see it that way, and the crowd was on his side, and he recognized the faces in it, smiling, cheering. Craig was right at the front— Tweek would bet money on him using his lanky limbs to push past everyone else. 

If Tweek told the crowd to scream, they would. When he faded to his own body long enough to think about anything other than the beautiful noise with him on the stage, he could see people singing along, dancing. His voice was raw and crackly and it felt so, so _good_ to exist like that. 

He couldn't tell how he ended up backstage again, only that he was there, listening to the animated chatter of his bandmates— his _bandmates_, jesus did it feel good to call them that. He was pretty sure he was talking, too, exhilaration making the words spill out far too fast and freely, so much so that he couldn't bring himself to mind it at all. He told himself this was real. That the feeling beneath his skin was elation, and maybe he was lying to himself but he wanted to live in this space forever. 

They celebrated back at Stan's house. Randy got them all vodka and whisky and pizza and when Tweek woke in the middle of the night it was because he had to piss, not because of any nightmares that plagued him. He fell back asleep squished between several other people, back to the door, and he'd never felt safer. 

Playing on stage was one hell of a bonding experience, and Tweek found it easier to communicate afterwards. Stan would soothe him through his paranoia, Kyle would encourage him to take care of his body no matter how certain he was it was already decomposed inside, and Kenny always had a good distraction, some little adventure that was just dangerous enough that Tweek couldn't find it in himself to be afraid. They played chicken with oncoming trains and climbed trees and scrambled their way up the batting cage to lay against the mesh on top. It was fun until Tweek tried convincing Craig and those guys to join him, and Clyde panicked and tried to climb down at the same time as him, and the thin little ropes snapped, depositing them all on a heap on the ground. But Tweek laughed through it, thrilled by the things he could do with his body and how electrifying adrenaline felt when it coursed through him.

And he knew, when he told Stan all about how he saw into other dimensions in his dreams, that Stan didn't believe him, but he let him speak and didn't force any reality checks. He told him all the world's disasters weren't his fault when Tweek became convinced they were, and he didn't shame him for missing the drugs he never chose, because they shared vices and Tweek got to be strong for him, too. There were nights where he watched over Stan after a relapse and drew him a bath and repeated, for the hundredth time, that he wasn't becoming his father. Doing that was nice. Feeling useful was nice, and having someone rely on him was good.

More gigs rolled in, with about three different people fighting for the title of band manager, and Tweek's belief that he had already died faded to background noise. Even if it never went away, it was easier to cope with. Some people believed in him, and that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> o/ hi I'm a day late bc this prompt kicked my heckin ass. I had a lot of tiny ideas for this, but none that i could really tug a whole fic out of, so instead I mashed a bunch of them together in one big self-indulgent... thing. it was fun though, figuring out how to make all these ideas work, and i got to write a bit for a relationship that i don't see a lot of content for but that i adore wholly. I hope y'all enjoy! you're likely getting another update later today ^^


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